


An Unobscured Vision

by Killjoy785



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: As in Stefano is mutilating Reader, Attempt at Italian, Blood and Gore, Gen, I mean turning Reader into a masterpiece, It is probably unpleasant, Mutilation, Okay it’s definitely not pleasant, RIP Bro, Reader may die, Seb makes a tiny cameo, Stefano Valentini/Reader - Freeform, This is basically describing Stefano peeling Reader like a grape, Unless Reader is into that kind of thing, not judging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 14:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killjoy785/pseuds/Killjoy785
Summary: Stefano Valentini thinks you’ve got what it takes to be his next masterpiece...”it” meaning a whole lot of blood and tissue and bits. Uses actual dialogue from the game. My take on Obscura’s creation.





	An Unobscured Vision

“So give them blood, blood, blood. Grab a glass because there’s going to be a flood.”

“Blood” by My Chemical Romance

 

You can’t tell where he went.

He is there and the curvy sliver of light at his hand tells you his knife is there too; it’s its own presence. And then, with a bang and puff of smoke as though from an old fashioned camera, he isn’t. Only that infuriating laugh echoes through the dark halls as you run. 

Was it even an echo? It sounds like it is in your head. You can’t tell anymore.

You only want escape. 

These damn halls are a maze. In your near-blind panic it’s as if they keep changing. You could swear this hall you backtrack through had a turn but no, it’s another fucking dead end and the painting on the wall is no comfort.

Dead eyes. Blood shot. Looks like they’re staring straight at you sightlessly. Following you. Witnessing the very cracks of your sanity widen and splinter.

You turn and you see a door with glass panes and...

Someone’s there with a flashlight! A security guard? A cop? It’s someone else anyway. You don’t hesitate. Its gotta be better than this maniac talking about flowers and flesh and blood. Specifically your blood.

Without caring you head straight towards the door and slam your body against it. 

“HELP!”

There’s a man out past the glass who jumps at the impact of you against the door. The flashlight moves with his body, blinding you. You can make out wide, startled eyes. You slam your fist against the door.

“HELP ME!”

And then the door disappears. Turns into a wall. A close-up shot of bloody broken teeth immortalized in a large framed photo print offers you a rictus grin. You bite back a scream and stumble back.

An endearing sigh floats up from behind you. 

“I can capture your very essence much like that piece. You can feel him scream though he makes no sound.”

You whip around. It’s him again. He stands at the end of the hall which is somehow closer than it was before. And though you can’t see his face you know that smirk is twisting his mouth at your plight. 

The only way out is behind him. You press your back against the wall. Cornered. Your pursuer moves and you feel the adrenaline pump through you. You’re ready, hoping whatever instinct your body acts upon won’t lead you to death.

A flash of light blinds you, black spots invading your vision. You throw up your hands. A whimper cracks through your throat and it earns you an approving sigh.

“Simply beautiful! A perfect shot!”

No!

That’s what you want to say. To scream. You want to charge at him either to attack or get past him.

But you don’t. Because you can’t. Your eyes are frozen wide, lips parted in shock. Your entire body ignores your brain’s desperate cries to move. The world shimmers in blue. 

He’s walking towards you. He’s getting closer. And all you can do is stand, frozen in an instant of pure fear.

He stands before you, a camera held close to his chest as he looks you up and down.

“Well. Almost”, he says quietly more to himself, as you can’t participate in the conversation at the moment.

You stare past him as his gloved hands lightly caress your arms, the curve of your back. A gloved finger follows the angle of your jawline and lingers on your neck. But not in a perverse way. It’s as though he were studying you.

He leans close, peering at your eyes, mouth, and his smile beams at you. 

“Make no mistake: you are a gift”, he says, reverently and you want to cringe away but even if you weren’t somehow paralyzed his icy blue eye fixes you with a fervent stare that would have frozen you on the spot. 

“But I can make you perfect.”

At once the world shimmers around the both of you and you can only accept that the walls change like the static between old TV channels. You want to scream, you can feel hysteria bubbling within you, gushing up like the last breath in drowning. But you can’t. Madness doesn’t seem too far away.

The lighting is dim. Red. The man takes a last look at you and turns his back and suddenly you collapse, gasping. The scream that has been clawing for release comes out as a strangled cry that tears your throat. He answers with a quiet chuckle as though politely reacting to a luke warm joke you told and not an expression of terror.

“Marvelous. Use that for the shoot.”

What the hell does that mean?? You’re gasping, focusing on catching your breath as you stare around wildly. 

“Please. P-please—!”

Predictively your cries are ignored. In fact you no longer see him but it’s so dark. He could be anywhere. You’d feel better if you knew where he is. Shakily you get to your feet. Why did he take you here? What does he want?

Bright lights suddenly burst on around you and you cry out in surprise, staggering. You freeze, your arms over your face and you hold your breath, waiting. When your eyes adjust you squint into the brightness and you suddenly wish the lights had burnt your eyes out of their sockets rather than allow you to witness this.

There is blood. Everywhere. Great arcs of it across the walls which are covered in white draw sheets and making the red all the more vibrant. The floor is a mosaic of red and entrails and so many severed hands and limbs and torsos. 

It’s about all you can take.

You can’t turn away because it’s all around you. If you close your eyes all you can see is red red red red so you run again. You need to be anywhere but in the landscape of red and death.

You spot a doorway. The tall door is shut but you throw yourself towards it. And you hear a condescending chuckle and the singing of steel through the air.

The knife catches you behind your right shoulder. It feels like a sharp blow at first before the message of shredded tissue sends alarms streaming through your nervous system. You let out a strangled scream and fall against the door. Before your eyes the door melts into the wall and your fingers scratch at the seams as they disappear. 

“No no nO NO NO!”

Hysteria raises your voice several octaves. Your breath coming in gasps you spin around and he’s suddenly there, his gloved fingers gently taking your wrists. You pull away frantically but his grip is strong. You collapse against his legs, your eyes wild and darting from each of the horrors. 

Effortlessly he pulls you up and you go limp in shock. Your shoulder throbs as he manipulates your arms. Holding you beneath your upper back, he grips the knife handle and with an uncalled for twist he rips it out. Its exit further shreds your flesh and you howl and sob unabashedly.

He makes a disapproving click with his tongue and forces you to look at his serene face, “Shhh. Don't cry. You're becoming art.”

He half leads half drags you to the center of the room, your legs tangling and stumbling until he lets you slide onto the floor, approaching something bulky underneath a large red cloth that you realize was once white. He glances down at your dazed face and there is genuine enthusiasm in his smile.

“You shall be part of my Obscura.”

The tarp is gently lifted, then thrown off to the side. All you can see are contorted limbs perforated with metal rods, fresh wounds flowing red, slick tissue shiny in the light. And it’s all moving. The thing is alive. Skinless and monstrous but it’s alive.

His fingers hesitate and then gently caress what may have been a thigh. The muscle tightens as though trying to escape the stimulation. You watch unfazed as the flesh swells and lengthens with the minute movements of his fingers.

“Ah, flesh. Less malleable than clay. Softer than marble.”

The wound in your shoulder suddenly bursts with fire and you can feel your skin ripping along with the clothes you had on. Your body spasms and your hands claw at the wound as though you’re able to stop this from happening. You’re being pulled towards the pulsing and shifting horror, towards his “Obscura”. 

“It really is the perfect medium.”

Your moans rip through your throat, distorted. Pain has become existence. Your skin melts, sloughs off like hot decay in the sun and melds with the other flesh. The very sinew of your muscles mutate, grow, shrink, tighten like the strings on a violin and you feel each nerve scream. Your spine arches and the bone gives way to the extreme contortions he forces on you with just the gentle flutter of his fingers. He looks as though caressing the invisible body of a lover.

You scream. It’s the only thing you can do. The sounds coming from you are terrible, inhuman, but pain has possessed your body and mind and soul. You are no longer you. You are the embodiment of suffering and your cries of torment make this known to the world.

Up until this point he has been silent save for soft murmurs of approval or sudden growls of frustration. The latter comes once more and he suddenly stops and runs an aggravated hand through his hair.

“Agh! I can't concentrate like this”, he snaps and in your blurred, reddened vision he is facing you. 

Currently you are hanging with your head past the height of your feet so he is upside down to you. You feel his fingers gripping the sides of your face and keeping your already open mouth still. 

You eye his knife poised above you and your sobs of protest come out garbled. You try to shake your head, no, please, you’ll be quiet, please don’t but it’s been decided.

“A sculpture doesn't need a tongue.”

With the expert flick of his wrist, his knife plunges into your throat and you feel muscle fibers disconnect under the blade’s movement. You make a final guttural retching noise and your tongue falls heavy on the roof of your mouth and sort of slithers past your lips to the floor. He absently stoops to pick it up and tosses it aside. You hear it make a distant plopping noise as it lands beyond your line of sight.

“Nnng nnnng”, you moan at him, copper filling your mouth and dripping past the corner of your gaping lips. 

He pauses and admires this and caresses your jaw, blood dripping onto his gloves and smearing onto your face. You choke and cough and scarlet spatters onto his chest and face but he doesn’t seem to notice and he delves into his work once more.

Skin comes off in slow tendrils like vines receiving the sun. You never realized how much blood one person could contain until it’s gathered in small puddles and streams and rivulets on your inflamed flesh. His eye is riveted to your body as he sculpts it against nature’s plans.

Finally, after seconds or minutes or years you can’t tell, he catches your trembling chin in his own shaky fingers. His hair is slightly messed, his breaths uneven. Smears of red pattern his face randomly like forgotten paint. The world starts to dim and darken as he traces your face once more, his lips parted and slick with saliva as he works. His eye shows uncertainty, expectant but hopeful. 

Your vision goes black for a moment as you feel as though your head has become enclosed in a dark cage of some kind. Your distorted breaths sound loud and muffled but your eyes become sharper than they ever have before as the world swims back into view. 

He looks at you curiously and for the first time his hair does not cut his face in half. A brilliant blue light glints from his right eye and it glows, seeming to shine through and into you. And you feel changed somehow.

The fear is still there but not the fear of pain or of death.

It is the fear before the curtain parts and the spot light hits. The fear that gives the unsteady rise and fall to the breasts of a new bride as the veil reveals her. You fear but you need and revel in it. 

It invades. It does not replace the pain but gives it meaning, gives it purpose. The pain is a sign the message you carry still screams loud and true. And you want to cry out in joy, in admiration. 

“...ah....ohhhhh...”

He steps back and stands before you and you straighten up and loom over him as though being shown off on a pedestal, a brand new thing being revealed to the anticipating crowd.

“Beautiful. Perfect”, you hear the awe in his voice and you want to lift your head in pride but also lower it in humility. His hands caress your face gently, tracing your hard angles. You shiver and lean into it and his smile fills you with everything you need.

The blue glow from behind the dark curtain of hair catches you once more and the pure love of it all overwhelms you. 

There is a distinct need to find the beauty hidden like birds in camouflage waiting to burst into song and expose them to the world in the way blood bubbles up and streams bright as ruby as skin rips, the crisp break of bone and how the limb follows this alteration unquestioningly and defiant of nature’s restriction, the piercing passion of pure pain in a scream overpassing even the greatest in song and word and music because it is not one manufactured but one that exists solely in nature in its truest, most naked form. You are living proof that death is not the end. Death is the ultimate transformation. And this truth, had you human eyes anymore, would incapacitate you with the wretched bliss of it all as you wept.

And it’s all there! It’s waiting for you! Calling for you to reveal its pulsing secrets, to dissect it and expose its raw, beating truth to the light.

“Ahhhh....ahhh ohhhhh...AHHH.”

“Yes, yes, luce dei miei occhi”, he cooes soothingly to you and you nuzzle your head against his, “You’re absolutely right. Let’s not keep the world waiting.”

End

**Author's Note:**

> So I got really really frustrated and wanted a break from writing sane Stefano. I’m still trying to figure him out. Also I absolutely love Obscura she is basically a gore puppy. I wasn’t sure about his creative process but despite how put together and immaculate he appears I figure, like all obsessive artsy types, he gets all into the creation bit. Hope I did him justice.
> 
> Also “luce dei miei occhi” means “light of my eyes” (I hope c’mon google translate pls do me right) which is a term of endearment for a child and Obscura is his baby so there you go.


End file.
